


The Bones of the Witch

by leatherpanties



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Mates, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pack Dynamics, The Hale Pack - Freeform, Witch Hunting, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:49:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leatherpanties/pseuds/leatherpanties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew how this things went step by step; they always made out of Burnings a really big event and there were usually one or two Burnings every few months, so it was not like this was the first time someone was going to be burned up on that stake accused of witchcraft and/or making deals with the devil, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At the stake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [b0rnbackwards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/b0rnbackwards/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank my Beta and friend [Litz](http://stilesstilinsgay.tumblr.com/), who has infinite patience, and the amazing hability to guess what I'm trying to say or write even when I don't know it myself. So, yeah... Litz, this fic is for you? Uh... congrulations!  
> She's also the reason why I'm posting this and she's generally the one running after my lazy ass and telling me to write more and get my shit together so... thank you. For everything. You guys should thank her too!

He could see them gathered around him. They hadn’t blinded him, taken his eyes off or tied anything around them, so he could see them all perfectly fine. Not only he could see them, he actually _knew_ most of them. They were people who had watched him grow, people who he had played with as a kid, people who had been friends with her mother when she was still alive, people whose lives his father had saved, people he had had over for dinner, people who knew him. Or who thought they knew him.

He knew how this things went step by step; they always made of Burnings a really big event and there were usually one or two Burnings every few months, so it was not like this was the first time someone was going to be burned up on that stake accused of witchcraft and/or making deals with the devil, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Every time, people would arrive to the Plaza with torches, cheering, laughing and throwing stones and sticks at the accused ones, making fun of them and competing to see who could strike the witch the hardest. Some months ago, there had been a guy named Mathew who lived just around the corner and was going to be hanged, but he almost died before the Head Priest arrived because the villagers had started throwing stones at the “Devil’s bitch” and they got a little bit carried away with it.

Contrary to the rest of the villagers, Stiles hated every single minute of the Burnings. He hated being forced to watch someone scream until they tore their throats and couldn’t even cry anymore, hated the smell of burnt up flesh, hated the way the body looked like while being cremated, the horrible, soul tearing sounds the person made while being burnt alive and the fact that no one complained about it because they were too afraid to do so. But what he hated the most was that _he_ never did anything about it. He just stood there like the rest of the villagers, watched thoroughly and let them die. Just like all those people he once knew and had now became just a bunch of strangers were doing to him.

The whole village was forced to attend to the Burnings, whether they liked it or not. Especially the beloved ones of the accused, who sometimes would thrash and scream and bed and cry, but other times, they would just sit there on their designated chairs, staring at the scene without shading even one single tear. Generally, the chairs designated to the family and beloved ones were filled with at least seven different people. That day though, the teny designated chairs on that big, wide, solemn stage were all empty except for one: The father's.

His father, a good and humble man, belonged to the crying and thrashing group; arguing with the guards as to why they had to let his son go, repeating he was innocent and that there had to be some kind of mistake over, and over, and over again.

The whole town was gathered around him and they could try to lie to themselves, to say that they were there just because they were being forced to be, that they wanted to see ‘justice’, but all of it were just a bunch of lies. The cake was a lie and so was everything else. They weren’t there to see justice get done, they were there to see his father cry and lose his son, the only family he had left. They were there to satisfy the most primal and human urge they all had: blood lust. They wanted to see him die, hear him scream and smell him burn. They were the monsters their kids should be hiding underneath their beds from. They wanted a show, and even if it was the last thing he did -which was literally going to be the last thing he did- he wasn’t going to give them one.

Normally the Plaza would have been a mess, filled with people cheering and laughing, parents pointing at the accused, showing their kids they had nothing to fear because the bad guys always ended up either in jail or burning up at the stake, with children running around playing pretend and pretending to be Hunters hunting down the evil creatures of the night that hid inside their closets. Creatures such as himself, apparently.

No one was cheering that day though, no one was joking, no one was laughing, no was running and no one was taking their eyes off him. They were all probably too busy wondering how they could’ve missed it, how was it possible that the child of the man responsible of their wellbeing and security had been one of the devil’s spawn all along.

“It was probably all part of his plan” he heard someone say “so they could spy on us, you know?”

“Isn’t that… isn’t that the Sheriff’s kid?”

“You never really know with them, do you?”

“And here I was thinking he was going to inherit his father’s job… can you imagine how that would have been? The streets would be filled with those… those  _monsters_ …”

“He seemed like such a nice kid… I can’t believe he’s– that he would– that he would  _do_  something like that...”

He even heard a little girl asking his mother what was Diles doing up there? He’s no witch, mommy!

No one answered the little girl, just like no one answered his father and no one answered him when they asked what was going on. What was he being accused for? What were the charges held against him? Who had accused him? What evidence did they have to prove that he was a witch? No one answered, because no one knew. The Hunters had just burst into their house, pinning his father to the nearest wall, breaking a couple of things in the process, and took him. They didn't ask any questions and they didn't aswer any either. There were no explanations given, just violence, orders and screams.

The Hunters had taken him to meet the Head Priest, an old man with barely any hair left on his head and, much to his luck, also the one in charge of deciding who was and who wasn’t a witch. During the Burnings, the Head Priest always appeared after at least two hours after the accused had been tied to the stake, and when he showed up, the crowd would erupt in cheers, clapping and shouting thankful words at him. For the villagers he was a hero, for him he was just a man who thought he had the right to decide who died and who lived, using the name of God to commit mass murder.

That day though, when the Priest got there no one encouraged him, no one cheered, no one sang, no one even paid him any attention, they all had their eyes fixed on him, and for the first time, Stiles feared he might have a chance. It was not like he was afraid of living; it was the hope that he was afraid of. He was afraid of hoping he had a chance to make it through this, when that would honeslty take a miracle. He looked around, trying to find a familar face and plead mercy to them, but he was greeted with the empty eyes of all the strangers that surrounded him, not even one familiar face among them.

“Don’t let his appearance fool you!” The Head Priest roared, clearly shocked and angered with the lack of response he was getting from the villagers. “He may have been someone we all knew and loved, but that’s only a façade now! Don’t you dare forget that…!” There was noise coming out of the Head Priest's mouth and his lips were still moving, so he could tell that the man was obviously _still_ talking, but he could no longer understand what he was saying. Maybe he just didn’t care anymore.

Stiles’ false hopes shattered into pieces and everything felt… empty, like everything that was happening, happened somwhere far away from where he was, to someone else, but at the same time, it was as if his senses had heightened. His skin felt cold against the morning air, one of his wrists was probably broken and the other one was  _definitely_  broken. One of his eyes was black and if he were going to make it through this, he’d be afraid of permanent damage as a factible possibility, but his eyes were going to melt in a few minutes, so it didn’t really matter anymore. His lips were split open and his body was filled with bruises and infected cuts that caused him a fever that still had to go away. They hadn’t just taken him, locked him in a cell and informed him that he was going to be burned alive. Oh, if only things had been that easy…

He looked up to the sky and sighed. It was a really nice day; not a single cloud on the light-blue morning sky… He chuckled, biting his lips to fight the lump forming on his throat. Why did this have to happen to him? What had he done? Why had he chosen his life when he was about to be born? Why this one? Was it worth it? Would it be worth it someday? Was his death going to inspire someone to stop this nonsense? Probably not. He wasn’t that important, and no, it was not worth it. All this suffering, his mother’s death, his father’s tears, his pain… none of it was worth it and none of it mattered anymore.

His mother, God, he didn't want to think about his mother. But she was... she had been such a beautiful woman… He had tried really hard not to think about her when he was dying, seeing it as an offence to her, but he was going to die, so he could be indulged one last wish, right? His mother had been... she had been one of those people that everybody likes, that is  _impossible_ not to like. Her smile was kind and honest, her laugh pure and true, and when she was alive she had always had this weird look on her face, like she knew something you didn't but she wasn't judging you for that. Her death had killed his father, turning him into a living corpse, and it had also ruined their family. They liked pretending they had, but neither of them even got over it, and talking about her eventually became something considered a taboo in that house.

It was weird, really, how something that used to bring so much joy and happiness to their lives, was now a subject avoided like the plague.

Stiles just _knew_ that if his mother were still alive, then things would have been completely different, because then his father wouldn’t be left completly alone and there would be someone to take care of him once he died, just like he had been taking care of him since his mother died, but now… now there was no one. The man had no one. Who was going to take care of him? Who was going to make sure he keeps eating healthily enough, that he doesn’t drink himself to an early grave? His father was going to lose the only thing he had left, and that was so fucking unfair! He just wanted to see his mother again, to hold her and bury his face on her chest and just let go. He wanted to cry between her arms, wanted to tell her he was so afraid of dying, that he was sorry for being such a disappointment, sorry for leaving his father alone, sorry for not having taken care of him enough, sorry she had died, sorry he had been born and lived a life that was not worth it.

“THAT’S MY SON! HE’S INNOCENT!" His dad screamed, trying to shove the guards out of his way and get to him. "STILES! SOMEONE! ANYONE! MY SON IS INNOCENT! PLEASE!” But no one listened. No one ever listened.

He couldn’t help it, so  he stopped fighting it and started thinking about her to his heart content. Would she hate him if she saw him? What would she think of him? Would she look at him with those same cold eyes the rest of the village was looking at him with? Or would she scream and cry and fight with the guards in a useless attempt to try to save him, like his father was doing? Oh, if only things were that easy... if only she was alive instead of him... then he could die peacefully, knowing there would be someone to look after his father, that he wouldn't be left complety alone.

“John!” His head snapped up once again, as he looked towards his father, where Melissa was taking him into her arms. “John, please, calm down!” She started saying along with some other things he couldn’t understand. And suddenly, that pressure on his chest disappeared and he couldn’t help but feel a smile creeping its way into his face. His father was going to be fine. Melissa would make sure of that.

His father was screaming, eyes red and swollen, big bags underneath them, hands shaking and voice raw. He looked broken, hopeless, like he couldn’t believe this was happening, like he didn’t know how he was going to make it through this without him, like he couldn’t understand why no one was helping his boy, why everyone was just standing there and watching, why the Hunters had taken him, why-

Out of nowhere, his cheek started to hurt, burning and getting him out of his trance.

Someone had slapped him.

Oh, that mother fucking Priest.

His eyes shot up, fierce and challenging. He allowed himself that pleasure: to let his eyes be flooded with all the hatred he felt towards that man in robes standing in front of him, holding his head up by his hair. The hand tightened its grip and he hissed in pain, not allowing his fear to creep its way into his eyes.

“This is your last chance, _witch_." he said into his ear, as if he was telling Stiles a secret. "Your last chance to redeem yourself and confess your sins." His voice was soft but ragged, like an old figure of crystal that had fallen and broken into a thousand pieces, but had been put together back again. It was still beautiful, but it was ragged." If you do, God may grant you salvation”

The world around Stiles was spinning and he felt himself clinging desperately to the hope of a chance to live as his conviction to not give a show shattered all around him at the idea of getting a chance to make it through this. What did he have to say? What had he done? If someone would just tell him then he would have begged for forgiveness and salvation a long time ago. He tried opening his mouth and talking, but the lump on his throat only grew bigger, thicker. He couldn’t even breathe. He felt like throwing up, and for a moment there he thought that was a good idea, maybe if he was lucky enough he’d choke on his own vomit. Sadly, he had nothing on his stomach to actually vomit and he wasn’t lucky. Not at all.

“You accept your sins as your own, then” the Head Priest said calmly, shaking his head slowly, as if he believed it was a pety that Stiles had refused the only oportunity he had for salvation.

Fear filled his eyes then, as he desperately tried to communicate to the Head Priest that he did not wish to die, that he would confess his sins if only he knew what they were!

“Tell us where you acquaintance is.” The man said, and then everything made sense… "Tell us where the other witch is" Reality washed over him like a bucket of cold water, leaving him cold, wet and sticky under the rain of realization. "We know you helped him scape. Where is he?" The man was not giving him a chance to live; he was offering him salvation, so that when he died his soul may go to heaven or whatever it was the man believed in, and the only chance he had to live was telling them where his best friend was, but not only he didn’t know that, he didn’t even know if Scott was still alive. He… he stared at the Head Priest, hearing his father’s screams trying to save him, saying that his son didn’t know anything about any witch, that he was innocent and this was all just a big mistake. Seeing the man who had raised him like that was tearing his heart apart, seeing his own father cry so desperately, so powerless, choking on his own spit and tears, snot hanging from his nose.

With his last strength, Stiles spat on the old man’s face. He was going to die anyway, so he might as well enjoy life while he could.

“As you wish” The Head Priest said, and with that he left, walking slowly towards his podium.

That was something Stiles hated about him with all his being. The fact that he didn’t even have the courage to do it himself, he only lit up the torch, and then someone else had to carry it. So considering he was still going to die, he tried telling him so, that he was a fucking coward and that Stiles was going to be waiting for him in Hell, saving his seat, warming it up, but what he got out was a broken sob that only gained him pity-filled looks. He closed his eyes, ashamed of being so pathetic, but forced them open right away; he wanted to look at every single present person on that Plaza, wanted his eyes fixed on every single one of their stupid little brains, wanted the picture of his eyes burnt on all of their memories. He wanted them to remember him, so that every time they went to sleep, his dreams would be filled with his eyes, never really leaving them, always there.

He wanted to leave an impression, wanted to die strong and proud, but as the torch started getting closer, he couldn’t stop the shaking of his arms nor his eyes squeezing shut.

He was going to die.

He was going to die and there was nothing he could do about it. He was going to die and his father was going to be left completely alone. He was going to die and… And he realized with a breath taking shudder that he was, indeed, going to die. It wasn’t like he didn’t know that already, but now he understood that his life was going to end, that there was no other way around it; no one was going to save him, no one was going to say anything and the sky was not going to miraculously get clouded all of the sudden so that the Burning would have to be delayed. He was going to die, and it was going to be painful.

The man carrying the torch was coming towards him slowly, filling the air with tension, awareness and anticipation. Everyone definitely had their eyes fixed on him now, waiting for the moment where he would break and start begging for his life, waiting for his flesh to burn and his screams to fill the place. He couldn’t even feel his hands, tied tightly and securely behind his back in a really awkward and uncomfortable angle. He was cold, he was scared and he felt nauseous. He wanted to wake up in his bed, hidden and warm underneath his covers with Scott lying next to him, holding him tightly and telling him everything was fine, that he had had a nightmare, that none of it was real. But it was, wasn't it?

He was afraid and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t. He was shaking life a leaf during a windy day, afraid to let go, with tears threatening to fall off his eyes and roll down his cheeks. He wanted to say that he was strong, head rise high in the air and proud, but that would also be a lie. He hated it, he wanted to be strong, to say the most moving goodbye speech ever told, but his words were stuck in his throat.

" _Fuck_ " He cursed into the air, biting his lower lip, feeling his quivering body breaking a little bit more with every step the guy with the torch took and chanting to himself that he _needed_ to be strong for his father, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't control the tears, he couldn't stop crying and he just couldn't stop  _shaking_.

He looked up pleadingly, finally giving up on his plan of leaving an impression and dying with honor.

He wanted to live.

God  _damn_ him, he wanted to live!

He wanted to live and he wanted to grow old, he wanted to fall in love, he wanted to get married, and have sex,  _dirty_  sex, vanilla sex and he wanted to make love to someone, and someone to make love to him, he wanted someone to make love with, someone to have children and a family with. He wanted to have a dog and a cat and a neighbor who would smile too much and creep him out because  _no one smiles that much, honey! It’s creepy!_  He wanted to fight, to laugh and to cry. He wanted to raise his own kids, he wanted them to come to him when in trouble and call Scott ‘Uncle Scottie’. And then his children would have children and he’d become the best grandfather ever, and they would call him Gran’pa and his wife would be Grannie, and one peaceful and regretless day, lying in his bed surrounded by all his beloved ones, he’d exhale his last breath.

He could become a doctor, maybe a soldier, maybe he would save someone’s life, maybe he’d brake someone’s heart, maybe someone would break  _his_  heart, maybe someone would fix him, complete the gaping whole his mother’s death left on him. There were so many possibilities and none of them were going to happen… He had no future, no possibilities and no options… He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it, nothing  _anyone_  would do about it, and it wasn't even worth it.

He had been told once, a long time ago, that before you’re born you can chose the life you’re going to live, that you get to see everything that's going to happen to you, who your parents are going to be, how you’ll meet the love of your life, how you're going to die, the changes you were going to make in the world, and the most important thing you could see, was that in the end, all those bad things that had happened to you, would be worth it.

But it wasn't fucking worth it! And if there was a way he could chose his life before he was born, he’d like to ask himself what the fuck he was thinking about when he chose this life, because this wasn’t fucking worth it! There was no point in all of this! Why did he have to die? What good would that make? What change would it mean?!

He couldn’t complain though, he deserved it. He deserved this as much as all of the rest of the faces of the strangers staring at him did. They deserved it because when there had been others on their places, on  _his_  place, they did nothing to help them.  _He_  did nothing to help them. He had killed them by standing there and watching it happen, by doing absolutely nothing about it. He had killed them, just like they were all going to kill him.

But he wasn't going to leave with just that, no sir. If there was an afterlife and he was allowed to do whatever he wanted to do, he was going to haunt all this assholes until they everu single one of them killed themselves.

The fire came into his sight once again, snapping him out of his trance, almost missing being slapped in the face by old, creepy octogenarians. The Hunter carrying the torch looked at him with something similar like regret or pity in his eyes, but he lit the wood beneath his feet anyway. It started spreading slowly, it was a special kind of wood after all, one specially prepeared to burn slowly and prolongate the acusated's suffering. He looked down at the fire, knowing the heat would only be bearable for a couple of seconds more, and his lungs would only be able to handle a certain amount of smoke before they’d stop working at all.

He looked at his father one last time, heart beating loudly in his ears and struggling to get his blood to move through his veins and arteries once again. His father was still screaming –had never actually stopped- but he couldn’t listen what he was saying anymore. He mouthed an apology to him and told him he loved him, after that, the spell was suddenly broken, like a soap bubble, leaving behind nothing but tears of a lonely child who only wanted to be hugged by his mother again.

The Plaza, normally would have been a mess, was suddenly filled with tears and screams, and he couldn’t help but wonder: Had his life been worth it after all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll give you cookies if you got the Portal reference :B
> 
> Thank you so very much for reading this and making it so far!
> 
> Uh... comments and kudos make me happy? They make me want to keep on writing and it's a really nice gesture!


	2. The Apples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is starving so he tries to get something to eat in a not-so-legal way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everybody who left kudos or bookmarked this and especial thanks to [SaharraShadow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SaharraShadow/pseuds/SaharraShadow/) who left kudos AND commented! You also convinced me to continue this story (even if it's been a long time...), hope you all enjoy:

So it turns out that living in the streets wasn’t as easy as he had imagined. First of all, all those good places to sleep he had seen around town? Most of them were already taken, and something that he had learned about living in the streets was that you never mess with someone else’s sleeping spot. Ever. Not unless you wanted to be kicked out of the “Homeless Community”, which believe him, you didn’t.

Homeless people were by far kinder than most people Stiles knew, but they were also meaner, more dangerous, crazier and _far_  more willing to take out your teeth while you were sleeping just to sell them to the local dentist. So yeah, you either behaved or stayed out of the way.

Of course, as luck would have it, Stiles was a really unlucky fellow, so not even a week had gone by before he found trouble with the most dangerous and crazy guy there was. The guy was missing most of his teeth, he always smelled like dead cat and was one of the most important members of the Homeless Community, so when he found out that the spot he had been occupying for the last nights was already taken, it didn’t take him long to pack his things and leave.

It was not that he was a coward, it was just that he had heard the rumors saying that the guy had sold most of his missing teeth and that he had ripped them off his mouth himself just because he didn’t trust the doctor. Also: the one time he tried to tell the guy to fuck off and find another spot, the guy took out a knife and started licking his gums like a crazy person.

So there he was now, in one of the worst spots in town, practically starving to death.

Every day, the pressure on his chest got heavier, just like the brick of ice that was slowly taking over his lungs, slipping through his bones, spreading to his stomach, running down his legs and then going all the way back up to his hands, making it hard to move his fingers, hard to walk, hard to breathe without wheezing, hard to swallow, hard to blink. Oh, and on top of that, he was always shaking.

It felt like it took his heart took a lot of effort to distribute the blood all over his body, and he felt the ache of it with every beat. His blood felt heavy and thick, like it was oil, and if his memory wasn’t messing up with him, he remembered reading in a medicine book that those were the symptoms of dehydration. Or maybe was he just getting hypothermic? Maybe both? Well, who knew? A doctor probably, but he didn't have money to pay his own food, let alone a doctor. Anyway there was nothing he could do about it now, and at the moment his health was the least of his worries.

He just had other things to deal with. Like… Deal with no food, no home, no warmth, no coat, no... well, no anything. He had stolen a coat a couple of towns ago though, and he could easily steal something else to keep him warm at night, but he was about to steal some apples right there and then, and even if he _was_ freezing, the hole in his stomach was bigger than the brick of ice over his heart.

Priorities, even he had them.

The only thing that mattered to him right there and then was getting food. He'd have time to worry about finding a suitable place to sleep or stealing warm clothes to wear later. For now, he had to focus on getting some food.

He wasn’t asking for anything fancy, extravagant or too elaborated of course, just a slice of old bread or a rotten apple. Maybe even the leftovers of some cheap restaurant, even if most of them were spoiled and had bugs and flies all over them. But of course, he didn’t have any money and nobody liked anybody nosing around their garbage.

He could’ve tried to get a job, something simple that would get him a small income of monthly, weekly or daily money, but most part of the employers preferred their employees to actually _have_ a place to sleep, or required them a certain education and “presence” that he obviously didn’t have. How was he supposed to get a house without a job? How was he supposed to get a job without a "good presence"? How was he supposed to have a "good presence" and tolerable smell without a house? It was a never-ending circle, really.

Maybe he could eventually get those things: with effort, dedication and _money_ , but that would mean turning into an active member of that community, and he wasn’t planning on staying there for a long time. In fact, it could be said that he was just passing by, even if he was actually just running away.

It was really weird, not even having a place to rest at night, when he was used to leading a sedentary life; sleeping every night on the same bed, eating every meal on the same table, always food in his kitchen, an _actual_  kitchen to cook in, the same people every single day, the same things, the same birds, the same houses, the same _everything_.

If he was allowed to be honest inside his own head, he’d say that he had never even been outside his hometown before! And now, every morning when he woke up he had to look for food, at night he had to look for a place to sleep, and let’s not even talk about using the bathroom. Really, you don’t want to know.

So yeah, the nomad life had a hard effect on him, considering that now he didn’t even have enough resources to treat his minor injuries or to even buy some bread or some _stupid_ apples.

There was this place around town that sold all kind of fruits and vegetables. It wasn't small, like other stores he had seen, but it wasn't all that big either. What did this store have that none of the others did? An owner he hated.

Harris -or so Stiles had heard someone call the guy a couple of times- was always looking at Stiles like he was disgusting. Which he was, there was no denying that, but he was living on the freaking _streets_ , the guy could be at least a little bit more sympathetic!

Besides, the apples he had taken last time had already been on the streets, and anything and everything that was on he streets was automatically his. Unless crazy toothless guy got there first, then he could have all the rotten apples and dried bread he wanted.

"Excuse me," Stiles lifted his face, acknowledging the man but not saying anything, just looking at him with annoyance "is there anything I can help you with, _Sir_?" the words sounded spat out, like the guy was putting into them as much disgust as he felt for him, but all Stiles did was shake his head, dismissing the man and going back to looking around the store.

He was bothering the guy with his mere presence, he knew that, but the guy couldn't just go and call the Sheriff because there was a homeless guy looking around his fruits. Even if Harris Stiles was going to end up stealing a thing or two all the guy could do, was look at him and try to catch him on the act.

Five to ten minutes passed by and Stiles was ready to get into action, but just when he was about to open his mouth and try to distract Harris, someone else entered the store and stole Harris' complete attention. Which was what Stiles had been going for anyways, so he wasn't complaining. The only problem now was that while he was able to run away from Harris if he got caught red handed, he clearly wouldn't have such luck with tall, dark and fuzzy over there.

Now Stiles was getting nervous.

The guy was huge, gigantic, _enormous_ even! No, really, the guy was like... _so big_.

"Mister Hale!"

Harris looked way too happy to have this 'Mister Hale', clearly more excited than he had ever been to see Stiles enter his store. And really? Stiles had feelings and even if he never paid for anything he got, he _was_  an usual costumer.

"What can I help you with today, Sir?" The guy -Mister Hale- looked freaking scary and just like someone who Stiles didn't really want chasing after him. He looked like someone who didn't know how to smile too, but let’s not get lost in the details.

Stiles could easily picture it: telling a joke to the big, scary guy and the only reaction he'd probably have would be... a judging, silent look. Hell, he'd be happy if Scary Hale Guy _just_  judged him from afar and didn't break his nose for being stupid and bothersome.

Just as if the guy had read his mind, Mr Hale turned towards him, looking straight into his eyes and closed the distance between them in three big steps, even if walking that same distance normally took Stiles six or seven.

He took his chance while all the attention was focused on his face and slipped a few berries into his pocket, not even bothering to look which ones he was picking, just doing it.

"I need those apples." Big, Scary Guy said in a hard tone of voice that in any other situation would have Stiles pissing his pants, but he had a job to do and food to steal. Also, probably no liquid in his bladder so...

"Uh..." Was all Stiles could get out, swallowing hard and stepping to the side. "Sure, they're all yours, man" The guy didn't bother thanking Stiles for moving, just picked up the whole fruit crate as if it were nothing and walked back to Harris. "How much?"

He didn't wait to hear how much the whole thing costed, as soon as Harris' eyes were off of him he turned around and walked out of the place slowly, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself by running away.

Of course his stomach would choose that exact moment to growl loudly and oh, not only he wanted to run away because of the shame, but he was also starving! His mouth watered as his fingers caressed the berries' skin, feeling like he was going to cry if he spent another minute without those small, precious, little fruits in his mouth.

He was just so hungry...

The Plaza was thankfully empty when he got there, so he wasted no time and started eating the stolen berries right away. If Stiles had been in a right state of mind, he would have organized his food, left something to eat for the night, and he'd have eaten slowly, because his stomach was now far too small to be able to deal with so much food at once, and the last thing he wanted was to throw up. Especially because he knew he would probably just try to eat his vomit if he did.

He was licking his fingers and running a hand over his stomach when he saw him.

Freaking. Mister. Hale.

It wasn’t the fact that he just happened to see him that scared the shit out of Stiles, it was the fact that the guy was walking straight towards him, looking at _him_ and frowning, all at the same time! He was carrying a bag with him and Stiles was one hundred percent sure that the bag was heavier than he was, so if Scary Mister Hale wanted to like… beat him up or something, there was no way Stiles could do anything about it.

He was getting ready to flee when the guy just stopped a couple of steps away from him and stared at him some more.

“Uh… hello?” He wasn’t going to be rude, not to someone _that_ big. Especially if there was still a chance that his charm could get him out of this mess.

Ok, maybe it was a tiny, little chance, but Stiles would take it.

“I have apples.”

Was all the guy said. And really? Did he have to be such an asshole? Stiles could play the freaking piano with his own ribs and his cheekbones could probably cut glass, so there was no way the guy had missed that and wasn’t doing this on purpose.

“Well, Sir, I’m glad for you. They sure looked like some pretty nice apples back in the store, I am glad you bought them.”

He wanted to punch the guy in the throat, watch him choke, twist and shout on the floor, but that was obviously not going to help him in any way and Stiles didn’t want to waste his strength with this asshole. Of course, there was also the part where he would most likely end up with at least three broken fingers and a really pissed off guy running after him if he even tried to touch Mr Hale, so he just stayed quiet and went back to licking his fingers.

“No.”

“No?”

Ok, so that wasn’t the answer Stiles had been expecting, especially not when all the guy did was repeat the same word again:

“No.”

“Uh… ok?”

Mr Hale’s frown got deeper and yet he somehow managed to still look unimpressed.

“For you.”

Was all the explanation and warning Stiles got before the guy was throwing an apple at him, so there was no one to blame but Mr Hale when Stiles failed to grab the apple, hit himself with it on the face and watched it roll around the floor. He threw himself after it so fast that Mr Hale’s eyes shot open in surprise, which Stiles counted as a victory considering how unexpressive the guy was.

“Oh my God, thank you very much, Mr Hale, thank you so much! God bless your soul!”

“Boyd.”

He got up slowly, cleaning the apple with his clothes and trying to make sense of Mr Hale's words, but came up with nothing.

“Void? As in… emptiness? Nothingness?”

Stiles’ own name was confusing enough, so he knew how bothersome it was when someone had to repeat their name over and over and over again, yet Mr Hale kept staring at him with a blank expression.

“I’m Boyd.”

“Well, that’s… a nice name”

Stiles was glad he now knew the name of his savior, even if he had never asked for it.

“It’s not my name.”

Ok, Stiles was now losing his patience. First he thought he was going to get the crap beaten out of him, then the guy started saying 'no' like a parrot, _then_ he said he was Boyd, and now he was saying that was not his name?! What did the guy even want from him?! He had nothing to give in exchange of the stupid friggin-

 _Oh_.

Well... that was weird. Mr Crazy looked like a fine man who would have no trouble finding a suitable lady or lad to spend his nights with and Stiles was dirty, he smelled, he was incredibly bony and he looked like an idiot. Seriously, his _face_! Why God, why. Then again, who was he to judge the hand that was feeding him? If that hand was dirty or wanted to get into Stiles' smelly and dirty pants... well, a guy’s gotta eat, right?

“Well, what do you like to be called then?”

It was a question he had heard the whores ask their clients a lot of times, so he tried to imitate their tone and poses to appear more… appealing. He even tried to push out his lips to look better or something, got a hand to his hips and everything! But as usual, the guy just went: “No.”

“Ok, look, Mr Hale, I’m really thankful and all, but I don’t get what you're trying to do here or what you're trying to-”

“I’m Boyd, not Mr Hale.”

What.

“But- But Harris- he… what? Are you stealing from Mr Hale? Man, that’s a great idea! Can I try that next time? Not with Harris, of course, because he already knows my ass, but in another store?”

“No.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake! Is that all you know how to say?”

“No.”

And, to Stiles' disbelief, a full-teethed smile split the guy’s face as he said the dreadful word. He _did_ know how to smile! Even if he was kind of laughing at Stiles' stupidity, but whatever, the guy was clearly stupider than Stiles if he was giving out free apples in exchange of making fun of poor, pathetic homeless people like him.

“Ha. Ha. Ha. You’re so funny, Mr… Boyd?”

The man nodded and threw another apple at him, which was kind of getting annoying, but Stiles wasn’t complaining.

“Could you just hand them to me? I’m not a freaking monkey”

“You smell.”

“Ok, good point.”

And that was it; the guy threw another apple at him, turned around and walked away.

It was one of the weirdest things that had happened to Stiles in that freaky town, and that was counting the fight with the toothless, dead-cat-smelling crazy guy.

"God bless you, Boyd!" he yelled at the guy’s back, slipping the apples into his pockets and running away to find a place to stay.

Stiles had no idea angels could be black, but he was never going to forget the name and face of the guy who saved his life that day: Boyd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I wasn't really sure about how this turned out, I've had it ready since like... a week after I posted the first chapter but I never liked how it was, so yeah... I finally decided to just say "f*ck it" and post it  
> Thanks for reading and if you leave kudos or comments thank you a LOT for doing that too!  
> Today the cookies are for anyone who got the hidden, tiny teeny Beatles reference uwu


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